Ashes
by Moilaane
Summary: ...
1. Default Chapter

The icy rain rattled its fingers against the windows as a chilling, numbing wind swept through the upper floors of the house, knocking expensive ornaments from tables and shaking the countless ancient portraits that lined the corridors – their faded, peeling paint cracking beneath the wind's frozen touch. The wind howled through the rooms, over a grey carpet, worn and threadbare, past damp, grey wallpaper, around mouldering pieces of grey furniture. It shrieked along a hallway lined with grey doors, each one firmly locked and bolted shut – all but one. A single door was ajar. The light from under it cast its luminescence across the hall; its pale amber glow the only colour in the crumbling, grey ruin of a house.

The wind howled and screamed at the door, finally forcing it to open with a creak of rusted hinges. The room within was as grey as the rest of the house, but at least showed some signs of repair. The holes in the large window had been boarded up to keep out the wind and rain, the gaps in the wall had been clumsily plastered over, the blue carpet looked as if it had been intended to add some colour to the room – but the thick layer of dust had turned it grey, as grey as the storm clouds that churned outside the windows, as grey as everything else in the house.

There was the chair. A luxurious, high-backed armchair that sat in the centre of the room, facing the fire, turned away from the door. Resting against it was a long, thin cane sword.

A dusty grey marble fireplace stood in one corner of the room, the glow of its dying embers adding a hint of orange to the grey moonlight that filtered through the moth-eaten curtains. Above the fireplace hung a large portrait - a picture that had been turned to face the wall so the house's occupant would not have to look upon it. Thick dust – or was it ash? - had settled on its grey frame.

And below it, on the mantelpiece, stood a small, grey urn.

The wind picked up, sending dust particles spiralling round the room, dancing in the grey light from the window. The portrait rattled against the wall as the wind became stronger, whistling, howling, moaning through the gaps in the woodwork. It spun round the room, rattling the portrait yet again.

There was a dull rumble of distant thunder as a sudden gust of wind swept the portrait from the wall to land with a dull thud, face up on the dusty carpet.

It was the portrait of a young man with dark eyes.

The wind howled again, once more, briefly.

It knocked the grey urn from its place.

Grey ashes spilled over the painting.

The thief pushed his damp hair out of his eyes and squinted at the name on the letterbox, just above the corroded door handle. It was no good: years of rust had turned the once-bright lettering into an illegible mess. He frantically rattled the door handle, flakes of rust sticking to his gloves and falling to the floor. A screech made him spin around, panic spread across his dripping features – but it was only the wind, only the wind… _or was it?_ The man tugged at the door handle with renewed vigour, realised that the door must be locked, bent down and set to work with a lock pick, the thin piece of metal shaking in his trembling, terrified fingers. A flock of bats whirred past overhead. The thief let out a faint whimper. He had dropped the handbag in the last alley – so _why was it still pursuing him?_

There was a click and the door swung open. The man stuffed the lock pick back into his pocket and jumped inside, catching his foot in a rip in the carpet. He fell face forward into the thick dust and arose, choking, spinning around –

Nothing. Nothing ripping through the doorway in pursuit. Had he outsmarted it? It was doubtful, but maybe…

His eyes growing used to the gloom, he could make out a staircase leading upwards into the pitch darkness, its walls lined with various dusty portraits.

There was a sudden whirring noise. The thief sprang forwards, sprinting up the stairs as the flock of bats shot through the doorway, the flapping of their wings sending dust spiralling into the air, forming an asphyxiating dust cloud. Momentarily confused, the bats flew round in circles before regaining their bearings and whirring off once again in pursuit of the thief, their wings knocking portraits from walls and sending them clattering to the floor.

The thief, wide-eyed and shaking with unspoken terror, sprinted down a grey hallway lined with doors as the bats turned the corner behind him. Biting his lip to stifle a scream, the man slipped through the wide-open door at the end of the hall and locked it from the inside, sliding bolt over heavy bolt into its place. Breathing heavily, his heart pounding, he leaned against the door.

_They can smell your fear…_

There was a knock at the door. The thief jumped backwards, collided with the chair and fell heavily to the ground once again.

The knock sounded again, louder this time.

The thief desperately tried to scuttle backwards on his hands and knees.

The knock sounded a third time, before the door was forcibly ripped from its hinges. There was a shower of tiny wooden splinters as the swarm of bats shot through the doorway. The thief sat rooted to the spot as the bats whirred past overhead. The fire went out. The breeze became a whirlwind. He screwed up his eyes and curled up into a tight ball on the carpet. Dust surged into the room, into his face, making him cough and wheeze –

And then it was over.

The wind died down. There was total silence. After a while the thief gingerly opened his eyes as the dust began to settle. He sat up.

And Mina Harker sunk her fangs deep into his neck.

Mina wandered over to the cracked, dusty mirror and proceeded to wipe the blood from her face with a handkerchief. She smiled at her reflection. She remembered _this_ house. She'd last been here eight years ago, when the League had met for the first time. The place had changed. Oh, yes. Its previous occupant would never have let it get into this state. But, as far as she knew, its previous occupant was a now a desiccated corpse pinned to a wall by its own sword somewhere in the frozen wastes of Mongolia…

They had been together once. The vampire and the immortal – some would say a perfect match. But… their love had died. Long ago…

After making sure that there was no trace of the red liquid left on her cheeks, she dropped the stained cloth on the floor.

It landed with a soft sound on the portrait, now buried beneath a thick layer of dust and ashes.

A drop of blood dripped from the cloth to the portrait, leaving a dark red stain on the canvas.

Unnoticed by Mina, the ashes began to move, slowly at first, but speeding up, the grey flecks beginning to form a shape. Mina turned away from the mirror and began to walk towards the splintered doorway. The wind picked up once again. Mina stood still, listening to the faint rustling sound as the dust motes crawled over the portrait's canvas. The dust began to spiral upwards, forming the shadowy, blurred shape of a man of medium height, with shoulder-length hair, as far as it could be determined from the dusty silhouette. Mina turned around. Her eyes widened in shock as she recognised the figure that stood before her, outlined in writhing dust motes. No, it couldn't be?

Meh, first ever proper fanfic. Please be nice..


	2. Chapter 2

Mina stared in shock at the figure facing her – the grey, featureless, swirling dust sculpture that stood upon the canvas of the fallen picture. She slowly extended an arm, her long fingers brushing against the ash figure's shoulder, dislodging a few flakes of dust. They sparkled in the faint moonlight for a few moments before being sucked from her finger by some sort of unseen force. Mina watched as they returned to the grey figure and were consumed by the boiling, curling torrent of ashes that raged over every inch of its body. Mina stepped backwards, still staring at the dull grey form that faced her. Features were beginning to come into focus – a pair of perfect eyes, an elegant nose, exquisite lips…

Oh, she remembered that face. She remembered it all too well. Many times she had traced those features with her lips as his long fingers had returned to tangle themselves in her hair…

But all that was behind her now. It was over. He was dead.

Or so she had thought.

The thick dust that obscured the carpet was slowly moving, rolling from the corners of the room towards the figure that stood by the fireplace. The wind howled again, sending tremors through the rotting woodwork of the house, finally knocking countless portraits, ornaments and other assorted decorations to the ground. Curtains billowed, moth-eaten sheets were blown from beds and outside a single bolt of lightning ripped through the air with the sound of tearing silk.

The dust spiralled upwards, encasing the figure in solid greyness. Mina pulled her scarf upwards to cover her mouth and nose, shielding her face from the storm of dust that roared through the house like a raging beast, choking, suffocating, blinding. Closing her eyes against the whirling storm Mina turned and began to walk towards the shattered doorway, dragging her feet through the pouring torrent of grey powder that surged from every corner of the derelict, crumbling house. She'd stayed here too long, far too long...

She put one hand on the splintered doorframe--

The dust storm came to an abrupt stop.

Slowly Mina turned around, not knowing what to expect – and gasped, steadying herself on the doorframe at what she saw before her.

Dorian Gray stood unsteadily on his feet, swaying slightly, staring straight through her.

Then he collapsed.

Mina stared, eyes wide with shock. This simply _couldn't_ be happening! She'd seen him die with her very own eyes. She'd _killed_ him. She'd watched his face age countless years in seconds as he crumbled into dust—

Dust.

She looked around. The thick dust no longer coated the carpet, the walls, the chair…

Whatever had happened, the dust was the key.

She stepped forwards, hoping with all of her mind that everything she saw before her and all that she had seen was some kind of illusion, some sort of hallucination brought on by lack of sleep. But the man remained there, his mere presence defying everything Mina had sought to convince herself over the years.

He was supposed to be _dead!_

Mina kicked out at Dorian's supine form. This seemed to elicit no response, not even a groan – he was completely unconscious, unaware of his surroundings. She knelt down beside him on the dust-free carpet. It was too much to hope that he was dead again – Mina could see his chest rising and falling with each faint breath he took.

He was still wearing the familiar grey suit and Mina found herself looking for Dorian's cane-sword, the concealed weapon that he had always treasured. Her eyes came to rest upon it, leaning against the back of the grey armchair. It was as if Dorian had never left. Mina half expected to see a servant rush past, bent on some errand or another, or hear the familiar chatter of voices from the kitchen…

But Dorian had been killed and the house had been abandoned for eight long years. The servants were gone.

Cautiously Mina raised a hand to brush against the sleeve of his jacket. It was covered with a fine layer of dust. She looked at his outstretched hand – dust was encrusted beneath his fingernails. She brushed Dorian's dark hair away from his face. His beautiful, ever-youthful features were covered with a thin film of dust.

He looked… peaceful. Gone was the sneer, gone was the constant expression of boredom. Gone were the dark rings of tiredness that had always encircled his eyes. To her surprise, Mina's mind flew back to one of many times when Dorian had dozed in her arms, exhausted after lovemaking, and Mina had watched his sleeping face.

When he slept, she could see clearly the face of the old Dorian, his face before the passing years had taken their toll on his mind… A calm, carefree face.

Or had he always been as sadistic and twisted as he was when she'd known him? Had he always enjoyed causing pain, so much pain, to everyone close to him? He'd told her once, many years ago, that he'd killed his friend for the simple reason that he'd discovered the secret of Dorian's painting and the terrible curse of his immortality. For that was how Dorian saw his endless life – a fearful curse that would keep him under its spell for all eternity.

Immortality would drive any man insane.

Dorian had long since tired of life. Ennui held him in its constant grip. Mina remembered how he would pace the corridors of the empty house long after sunset, muttering softly to himself. She remembered the tap of his cane on the dusty carpets as he walked. She remembered how he would lock himself in his room and, aided by some sort of narcotic drug, sleep for days on end without stirring.

That was why Mina had left. He no longer seemed to care for anything, anyone, not even the woman who had loved him for three long years. When she told him of her departure he had simply nodded blankly as if he had been expecting it for some time and locked himself in his room once again. His complete lack of reaction confirmed Mina's suspicions – that he had tired of life completely. It was only his own fear of death that stopped him from taking the portrait from its place above the fire and shredding it himself.

What hurt Mina the most was the way he didn't _care. _It was as if the years they had spent together had meant nothing to him, nothing at all. _That's because they didn't_, she told herself. He'd never cared. Dorian was a cruel, heartless man and he knew it well.

Which was why, after he had betrayed the League, that she had set out to kill him.

Part of her wanted to kill him again, to throw his precious portrait into the fire and watch as he was slowly burned alive. He _deserved_ a drawn-out, painful death.

She looked back at Dorian's unconscious form. His hair had fallen across his face once again, exposing the soft skin of his neck. Mina felt her fangs beginning to lengthen. Yes, that would be a perfect end to the man who had toyed with her emotions for so long…

Killed by a kiss. It was perfect.

Mina leaned forward, breathing in the faint but familiar scent of his hair – a hint of absinthe, a hint of lavender…

And ash. Always, beneath everything, the scent of ash.

Ashes filled her mouth as she bit into his neck. She pulled back, coughing and spluttering, watching in horror as the perforations in his neck carefully sealed themselves, leaving his skin as clear as ever.

Of _course._ He couldn't be physically harmed, could he? The portrait made sure of that.

_The portrait…_

Dorian chose that particular moment to open his eyes.

"Miss Vane?" he managed.

Mina grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head back, baring his throat. Dorian didn't yet know that Mina couldn't kill him. She was sure that this could be used to gain some advantage.

"No, Mr. Gray. This isn't Miss Vane. This is Wilhemina Harker… _Remember me?_" she spat, bringing her face closer to Dorian's.

"Ah, Mina-"

Mina pulled Dorian's head back even further. He gasped. She stared into those dark eyes -- those terrible, wonderful pools of inky blackness…

How she wanted to take him into her arms and kiss him like she had done all those years ago. How she wanted to feel his hot, damp breath against her neck, to feel his hands—

_No!_

It would have all been so _easy_ if he'd only stayed unconscious!

Mina pulled her hand sharply away. As if reading Mina's thoughts, Dorian sat up from his awkward position and desperately lunged towards the portrait – but Mina reached it first and pulled out a knife, holding the edge of the blade perilously close to the picture's canvas. Dorian gave a sigh of resignation and raised his hands.

"Mina, please…"

The vampire gritted her teeth at the sound of Dorian's voice, the unconcerned drawl that had so attracted her at first but had gone on to irritate her as time had passed

"Dorian, stand up."

Dorian got to his feet with greatly exaggerated care, smiling faintly. He stood stock-still for a moment while Mina watched him, then darted for his cane. With lightning speed Mina slid the knife across the portrait and Dorian stopped suddenly, raising a disbelieving hand to his cheek.

He gently touched the small cut with manicured fingers, then put them to his lips.

_Blood_.

"Mina, dear, just let me have my cane. Then we're equal."

Mina nodded, noticing the brief flicker of fear that had passed across Dorian's face when she had cut him. His renowned icy composure had shown a crack…

Dorian reached for the cane and wrapped his fingers around it. He sauntered over to his chair and sat down. The rusted springs of the cushion clinked together.

"So… It's you and me again." He paused. "Just like old times."

Mina stared. She could not do anything _but_ stare. The man seemed completely unperturbed by the fact that he had just materialised in his own house eight years after he had, in fact, died. Dorian yawned, then smiled, toying with his cane.

"Oh, I don't know exactly _what_ just happened either. But that's not important, is it? I'm _back_."

**Next chapter! Possibly Dorian's POV. But that isn't certain… yet. Muahahaa. I hope I got the characters right, anyway. Characterisation has never been my strong point.. oO**

imogen thomas/.Page 4

28 January 1980


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